


I Will Hold You To The Light

by luluxa



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 11:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12817056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luluxa/pseuds/luluxa
Summary: When the Temple fell, Baze left. Everything he defined himself through was destroyed and he was destroyed with it. He couldn't stay on Jedha back then. Now he can't stay away from it.





	I Will Hold You To The Light

I will walk this ground forever  
and stand guard against your name.  
I will give all I can offer,  
I will shoulder all the blame.  
I am sentry to you now,  
all your hopes and all your dreams.  
I will hold you to the light,  
that's what forever means.  
  
 - 'Forever' by VNV Nation 

 

 

 

By forty-one, Baze is a cynical bastard with almost no qualms left, but he still feels uncomfortable picking up a whore to spend the next hour with. Maybe if he did it more often than once a year, it’d be easier, but it’s still a lot better than finding someone in a seedy bar. At least he can give a prostitute some money – a good deed, relatively speaking, and also a strictly business one. Baze has no desire to establish any sort of connection with a person he fucks. He’ll be imagining Chirrut and feeling like crap because of it, anyway – why involve any poor guy in it beyond the necessary?

He doesn’t look closely at the prostitute that finally takes him upstairs to a dark room smelling vaguely of spunk and cheap detergent. The guy’s the right height and fit and his hair is short – almost enough to pass for someone else. Not completely, Baze never forgets who he is with, but for a second or two he can make his thought wander and his fantasy take over, a secret and perverse what-if notion filling his mind and making him come quickly.

“Who were you fucking, just now?” the guy asks him after a moment, when Baze finishes and rolls away to catch a breath and swallow back a heavy lump in his throat, the reality momentarily crushing him.

“What?” Baze asks flatly, not expecting any talking.  

“Not me,” the guy says, watching him closely. “I can tell it when I’m used as a proxy.”

“Are you ever used as anything else?” Baze asks cruelly and immediately cringes, Chirrut’s disapproving scowl vivid before his eyes. It’s often there, in fact, and always makes Baze guilty.

He reaches for his wallet, to hide his face and fumble with the credits he owes.

The guy sighs. “Did he leave you?”

Baze snorts with bewilderment. “Why the fuck do you care?”

He sits up, the tiny room suddenly claustrophobic. He came here for a short and mostly pleasureless release, for fuck’s sake, not for to bare his soul.

“It gets lonely,” the guy says, not moving. “And you’re the only client today who was remotely affectionate with me.”

Baze’s irritation recedes, replacing with pity. He adds two credits more to the three asked, dropping them on a narrow bedside table, but remains sitting, trousers half-on.

“Can’t you find a better job?”

“Not until I’ve paid my debts. Anyway. We were talking about you.”

“No,” Baze says, “we weren’t.”

He still doesn’t get up or dress properly, his limbs oddly heavy. He’s exhausted, it occurs to him dimly, on a verge of tripping over his feet and falling in a heap into the first gutter he stumbles over. When will someone finally shoot him for good? Why does he have to be so skilled at killing people? He thought he would find some dark sort of relief in it, and at first, he did. Now, though, he just feels empty and worn out and useless, since no matter how many soldiers he kills, twenty new take a dead one’s place.

Baze just wants to go home.

“Did you leave _him_?”

“Yes,” Baze hears himself say, voice rough and lifeless. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Why? Because Baze was angry and broken and not knowing how to deal with it. Blinded by his hatred and pain to know any better. Chirrut never was – he’s blind but never blinded _by_ anything.

“Because I thought there wasn’t a place for me anymore. I thought I’ve lost everything,” he mutters his usual excuse, a variation of the same complaint he repeats over and over to imaginary Chirrut – not that Chirrut would ask that of him, either enlightened beyond reproach by now, or simply not caring anymore. It’s been a long time since Baze left. He should be forgotten and discarded, and empty shell of a crap person.

“You had him, though,” the guy says, startling Baze out of his self-loathing thoughts.

“Well, I’ve fucked it up, haven’t I?” he asks harshly, done with the questioning. He gets up. “No wonder you aren’t treated gently with such a crap bedside manner.”

The guy scoffs. “You just gotta go and apologize, instead of moping in a corner. It’s pretty easy, you know.”

Baze bristles. Opinionated nosy little shit.

 _Not unlike a certain Guardian_ , an unwelcome thought occurs to Baze, making him wince. He refuses to take this as a sign, knowing Chirrut most certainly would.

He finally puts all his gear on, almost wanting to take his extra credits back, but that would be petty. He leaves without another word and bangs the door on his way out.

 

*

 

Two months later, on a crowded dirty cargo ship, Baze sits in a corner, moping and dozing alternatively, on his way to receive the second half of his payment and another job. He doesn’t really want either, but at least it’s an occupation.

At some point, a dirty girl sits next to him, not intimidated by his looks that had worked on everybody else. Baze spares her another glance, now realising she’s not entirely well, mentally, face childishly innocent and slightly absent – back on Jedha, Baze saw kids like her, another grim product of the Empire, their parent pilgrims thinking it’d do them some good. This one is in her mid-twenties, though, he figures after a moment, her skinny frame and big-eyed face deceptive.

Baze wants to ignore her but still monitors her movements and anyone approaching her, taking on a duty of care reluctantly.

“I’m Ally,” she says suddenly, after Baze’s heavy glare spooks away a gritty thug who was slouching by the opposite wall. “Can I stay here with you for a while? You’re a good person.” She’s not looking at Baze, but somewhere to a side, head tilted. For a second Baze thinks she’s blind, but then she darts a glance at him, lowering her head immediately after. Just shy and uncomfortable with eye contact, Baze thinks with relief.

“Fine,” he says. “Are you in trouble?”

She gives him a hesitant awkward shrug. “A little.”

Probably some sick fuck wanting to take an advantage, Baze thinks and doesn’t ask any more questions.

She divulges information herself, bit by bit, saying she was raised in an orphanage (she’s not sure on which planet), that it was closed and turned into a military base (those in white ugly masks, they screamed and ordered a lot and told us to leave, she says), she worked in a local village then, helped a nice woman with animals (she loves animals, especially big hairy ones, she adds, glancing at Baze’s unkempt mane with an arch smile; Baze snorts). The farmers were ordered to leave as well pretty soon and took her along with them as they packed their stuff and climbed a ship – not this one, different one. She got lost at one point. Baze shouldn’t worry, though, she can work and find herself a place, wherever it is they’re going.

He then takes her to pick a dinner, making sure she eats everything. Night-time lights come on, and she scoops closer to him in their corner.

“I don’t like it dark,” she complains. “Sisters used to play tricks on me in the dark.”

“I’ll make sure no one plays a trick on you,” Baze promises her, and startles, when she just nods and curls on his lap like a cat, asleep almost immediately.

Baze huffs. She doesn’t weigh anything and even though he doesn’t want to admit it, it’s comforting to have another living being trusting you so completely. Last time Baze felt this sort of comfort was years ago, with Chirrut stretched on a mat next to him, limbs everywhere, sleeping in the shittiest NiJedha neighbourhood but knowing nothing will hurt him.

And then Baze left him.

 

Over breakfast, Ally begins to tell him a story from her orphanage years, but falls silent quickly.

“You look sad,” she says with a frown. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Baze says curtly. “Eat your food.”

She is quiet for a while, eyeing Baze with worry.

“You’re taking care of me,” she says eventually. “Is anyone taking care of you?”

Baze smiles at the question – it sounds ridiculous, but then again, she’s too right.

“There was someone. I was mean to him and now I’m looking after myself.”

She looks disapproving. “Have you apologized?”

Oh for fuck’s sake! Baze huffs. Does everyone think he should apologize to Chirrut?

“I haven’t. It won’t make a difference.”

“It will, though. It always made a difference when I apologized. And when someone was mean to me, I always forgave them when they apologized and we were friends again.”

Friends shouldn’t be mean to each other in the first place, Baze wants to say. Of course, unless they are fucking morons with their head up their asses – but then, simply an apology won’t fucking cut it.

“If you are really his friend you should ask him to forgive you,” she says with convincement. “And if he really is your friend then he will.”

Her ingenuous words hurt him more than he expects. If Baze really is a friend, indeed.

He doesn’t doubt Chirrut’s ability to be a bigger man and forgive him. He is only scared to go back and meet a polite smile of a stranger who long since crossed Baze out of his life and has no place for him in it anymore. But this fear is about Baze and his comfort. He should worry about Chirrut instead who did not deserve to be betrayed by Baze.

“You’re right,” he tells Ally gravely. “I should go and see him.”

She smiles triumphantly. “I knew you were smarter than you looked.”

Baze splutters, as she giggles. For the first time in many years he feels like a fraction of an enormous weight has been lifted off him, and maybe more can be lifted yet.

 

*

 

He doesn’t take another job, but he does pick another fight, after which the only alternative is really to go to Jedha and lay low for a while. It’s his excuse in case he needs it – if Baze believed in the Force, he’d say it’s actively pushing him in a chosen direction. But Baze doesn’t believe in the Force and is sure instead it’s his guilty conscience, bone-deep tiredness, and misery that have chosen the direction for him.

And if anything, if Chirrut tells him to fuck off, if the Empire-ridden Jedha appears to be as harsh and infuriating as he remembers – well, he’ll at least make sure Chirrut is okay. It doesn’t occur to Baze he might be not. Firstly, it’d be unbearable to contemplate, and secondly, he’s pretty sure Chirrut is beyond capable to take care of himself.

In another cargo ship, a lot less crowded one, he finds a vantage corner and extracts an old battered notebook, with actual sheets and a pencil to go with it. It’s an artefact from the olden days, one of the few things Baze couldn’t part with. There’s comfort in writing words down, tracing each letter physically, slowly, a meditation of sorts. Baze doesn’t talk much and he doesn’t write much, but he finds it easier to express himself after he’s written it down. Half of the notebook is filled with words he wants to say to Chirrut – Baze knows all of them by heart, but doubts, this time, that having them in his disposal would make it any easier to talk.

There are lists of useful people and places, his accounts, notes on weaponry and schematics of some interesting ones he carefully drew in case he needed them. There are lose landscapes of Jedha and other planets he’s been on. There are portraits of Chirrut – awkward and rather inept, since Baze has no idea how to capture him, wanting to just point at a neutron star and say, here, that’s what he looks like.

He probably spends a long time staring at one of his shit drawings, oblivious to everyone around.

“He’s handsome.”

Baze starts, looking up and closing the notebook hastily. Beside him he discovers a woman in a dark saffron dress, perched on a crate elegantly. She could be one of the illegal pilgrims, her expensive clothes clashing with the shabby freighter, but her face is uncovered and it doesn’t look like she spends any amount of time mediating. Her dark eyes are bright with curiosity and she’s smiling.

Baze makes a non-committed noise.

“Someone you used to know?”

Why the ever-loving fuck everyone is so keen to know about Chirrut?

 _I’m going, don’t you fucking see,_ he tells the Force with annoyance. _No need to press it on._

“Yes,” Baze says, radiating uncooperation.

The woman sighs. “Come on. Aren’t you bored? I’m bored,” she says conversationally. “Talk to me, o brooding one.”

Baze snorts. “Why are you going to Jedha?”

A fleeting scowl crosses her face. “Business. The planet is full of antiques. That’s not interesting at all.” Of course, smuggling antiques is illegal, she couldn’t go on a normal cruiser. “Let’s talk about that handsome boy from your notebook, instead,” she continues, sitting more comfortably even though it means she smears her dress. “Lover?”

Baze glares. “Friend. A brother.”

She raises her thin eyebrows. “Oh no, how unfortunate. It’s unrequited for you, the worst sort. Is he on Jedha?”

Baze gives up. She won’t go away and the Force – Universe – whatever – clearly wants him to talk about Chirrut to random strangers that vaguely remind him of said Chirrut in one way or another.

“He’s on Jedha,” he says wearily. “I was an asshole to him. I’m going there to beg forgiveness.”

“Is he a forgiving kind?”

“Yes. It’s his job description, you could say.”

The woman looks confused for a second, but then something downs on her and she laughs. “Oh dear, have you fallen in love with a priest?”

“A monk,” Baze clarifies. He doesn’t deny being in love. What’s the point?

She regards him with a tilted head. “A brother, you said,” she offers.

Baze nods vaguely. “Sometime.”

“How unusual!” she declares, visibly entertained. “Tell me about this monk of yours. What’s he like?”

Baze can describe Chirrut no better than he can draw him. He grumbles.

“Contrary. Stubborn. A fantasist. Picks ten fights a day. Laughs at everything. Charms his way out of trouble and when it doesn’t work, clobbers it. Little shit,”  Baze adds under his breath, making the woman laugh brightly.

“Surely there’s more,” she says. “What a character!”

Yeah. Baze is silent for a while. “Never met anyone kinder,” he mutters, almost to himself. “There’s light in him and it’s as warm as it is murderous. When he fights, it’s a dance. He’s blind. He speaks in truisms, or jarring truths, or jokes – all for his own comfort. He’s saved my life and I gave him a home. He’s what’s left of mine.”

This time the woman doesn’t laugh and gets up.

“I’m sorry I’ve disturbed you, Guardian. Good luck with your pilgrimage,” she says, looking entirely serious. “May the Force be with you.”

Baze watches her as she leaves, a bit thrown by this sudden retreat.

After a moment, he schools his face into a calmer expression and doesn’t hold the hasty escape against her.

 

*

 

Baze doesn’t have a chance to search for Chirrut, because Chirrut finds him first.

It’s freezing on the narrow, filled with drafts street – Baze forgot how fucking cold it felt. He knows he’ll get used to it again quickly, but half-expects to catch a pneumonia first, shivering in his thin jacket.

It’s already late when he finally reaches NiJedha, the freighter having landed quite a distance away for safety’s sake. It’s not a romantic sort of twilight that descends after the sunset. Dark heavy clouds hang low, promising a night rain, there aren’t enough lights in the windows, the wind whistles thinly in back alleys, and he lets a few patrols march by, waiting out in the dark corners – NiJedha doesn’t seem too happy Baze came back. He hurries down the familiar road towards the inn with a sometime friendly host, hoping to find a shelter before the rain comes. He finds the inn closed and dark and hovers by the doors, lost. Shit.

Well, there’s Old Market farther down the road – there will be no bed and no running water, but Baze slept in worse dumpsters.

He doesn’t quite reach his destination, pausing by a window with the city vista spread below, sprinkled by flickering lights, like a starry sky. That moment, the first raindrops mixed with sand barrel into his face, propelled by a gush of wind, stealing his breath for a second and making him cough.

“Hello, hello,” he mutters, almost amused. “Nice to see you too, Jedha.”

He wraps his jacket tighter around himself and adjust a blaster on his hip.

“Baze?”

Oh.

_Oh._

Baze stops. He’s not ready. His insides sink and the chill pierces through all his bones.

In the clouding darkness it seems like Chirrut hasn’t changed at all, not a year, not a day. Like a ghost, materialising from the thin air to haunt Baze. Chirrut steps down smoothly from his place by a nearby window. He’s scowling.

“Baze,” he repeats again, sounding insistent and pleading in the same time, the scowl replacing with desperation, like it’s Baze who’s a ghost, already vanished.

Baze takes a breath. It’s Chirrut. It’s _his Chirrut_ – how could he ever think so little of him to imagine he’d brush Baze off?

He crosses a short distance between them. “Here,” he whispers, as he draws Chirrut into a hug, as close as it’s possible, breathing him in and absorbing the heat he always radiates. His head swims with relief. He’s home. “I’m here, Chirrut,” he whispers, throat raw and not letting him speak anymore.

Chirrut nods curtly against his shoulder, pressing tighter in, Baze’s back in his steel grip.

They stand like that for a while, until, and as they should’ve anticipated, the wall of freezing rain falls on them. Baze is soaking wet in seconds. When he looks at Chirrut again, disentangled, Chirrut’s laughing, flashed out by lightning and emanating the light of his own.

“Come on!” he shouts over the roaring wind, rain and the low growl of the thunder. “I have a place. There’s even a fire.”

Baze follows him through the maze of streets, down towards the western wall, where there is indeed a place, a tiny make-do shelter on the back yard of a minor temple. It’s empty and unlit, looted and left a shell of – no one dares to live inside and desecrate it even more. It stands as a reminder.

Chirrut lights the fire in a tiny hearth, the rain falling heavily on the roof, but the hut is secluded from the winds and prying eyes, soon warming up to be almost homely. Chirrut talks.

“Not much food in here,” he says apologetically, managing to put up a meal during his monologue. “Wasn’t expecting any company tonight, do forgive.”

Baze flinches.

Since Chirrut doesn’t intend to shut up, Baze sits back and listens, taking in the news and stories, taking in all his movements, the little changes now visible in the orange firelight. There are new layers to his Guardian robes. His voice is slightly lower. There are tiny wrinkles around his eyes, and the set of his mouth is firmer than Baze remembers. His moves became more ascetic somehow, only the bare minimum of them remaining, but they’re also smoother and lighter. He smuggles pilgrims to the temples, talks to them, learns everything happening in the Empire. He fights the troopers, too – there are still people willing to resist, interfering with the Imperials and making them paranoid.

Baze knows Chirrut’s talking out the nervous agitation bubbling in him, and waits it out, grateful he doesn’t have to speak and finding comfort in the familiarity of Chirrut’s silly ways.

“Where have you been?” Chirrut asks finally, without taking a pause after finishing a story. “Why are you back?”

Baze closes his eyes briefly. “Which shall I answer first?”

Chirrut makes a face. “Latter.”

“I wanted to see you. I wanted to say I’m sorry, for leaving.”

Chirrut relaxes a little, smiling wryly. “Well, you’ve seen me. And I’ve never accused you of anything – it’s your life, you can do whatever you like with it.”

His tone is light, but Baze knows him too well. “I’m sorry, Chirrut.”

Chirrut sighs. “Are you staying?”

Baze pauses. He wants to stay. Of course he wants to stay, but he doesn’t know if he can manage it without flipping out again and he doesn’t want to give Chirrut a wrong idea. “I’m hiding,” he says evasively. “I’m staying for a while.”

Chirrut’s face is unreadable even for Baze, which must mean he’s making a lot of effort to keep it neutral.

“Who are you hiding from, then?”

“Former clients. I’m an assassin. I kill the Imperials for money – it’s good sport.”

Chirrut tilts his head with visible disapproval, making Baze snort.

“Oh, don’t give me that, it’s what you do here for free.”

“I don’t find pleasure in it. Or aggravation,” he adds. “You should take a break from the killing. It’s making you unhappy.”

How the fuck would you know, Baze almost asks, but then shakes his head tiredly at himself. It’s Chirrut. He just knows. Baze used to find it safe and welcome, but years and years of loneliness and mistrust have made him defensive. He’ll have to learn all over again how to accept Chirrut knowing everything about him and then assume it’ll never be used against him.

“I’m pretty sure laying low includes as few killings as possible,” he says placidly. “The killing made _you_ harder,” he adds.

“No. The killing has nothing to do with it.”

Baze tries not to take it on his account and fails, guilt flooding him again.

“Do you think you could forgive me one day?” he mutters, utterly miserable.

“I told you, Baze. I’m not angry with you and never was. There’s nothing to forgive.”

Just like that, a wave of frustration washes over him. “You’re lying. You can keep lying to me but at least don’t lie to yourself. Be angry with me, _please_. You should be. I can take it. Just don’t pretend it’s fucking okay.”

Chirrut sits still and silent, as Baze raises his voice. He looks sad and concerned – not at all what Baze was aiming for.

It was so easy to be with Chirrut before everything collapsed. Now it’s a struggle – but Baze was avoiding it for seven years. There can be no peace if neither of them takes a step forward, and since Chirrut refuses to acknowledge there is a problem to begin with, the first steps must be taken by Baze. Tomorrow.

“I’m tired,” he announces. “I’m going to sleep. And if you wake me up with a prayer before dawn, I will strangle you.”

For a second there’s no change in Chirrut’s solemn face, but then he smirks, the hut immediately ten times brighter. “Don’t overestimate yourself, Malbus.”

 

*

 

Baze wakes up to a prayer, and it’s indeed just before dawn, the sky gently pink above the city.

He lies on a pallet, air still wet and cold with the night rain, and watches Chirrut meditate on the temple’s back yard. He’s completely still and his voice is quiet, but Baze was waking up to the sound of it for half his life and returns to the habit right away.

There isn’t anything else in the world he’d rather wake up to.

He watches Chirrut until he’s finished, the muscles on his back flexing as he stretches.

“You should’ve joined me,” Chirrut comments, getting up. “It’s still a healthy practice and has nothing to do with the Force.”

Baze huffs. “Some other morning.”

He’ll have to spend some time warming up while Chirrut’s elsewhere, either it’ll be just embarrassing. _Also, I’d rather just watch you_ , he wants to say, but doesn’t, his cowardice long-settled and persisting.

“You got lazy,” Chirrut says with audible displeasure. “Can you still spar?”

Not before some warming up, either. Baze winces at himself. He came to rely on his blaster too much. “Give me a break. I’m an old tired man on a run,” he grumbles his way out of it, not exaggerating a bit.

Chirrut snorts. “You’re pathetic, is what you are.” He finally puts his tunics on and settles for tea making. “You will exercise.”

It’s an order, if Baze ever heard one. It’s not the first he’s received from Chirrut and not the last, and as per usual, he doesn’t want to object.

“I will find _a job_ ,” he object anyway, out of spite.

“A job?” Chirrut repeats incredulously. “More killings?”

“No, just a regular job. My credits will cease eventually and it doesn’t look like you have any to begin with.”

Chirrut’s mouth stretches into a thin hard line, not something Baze has seen before. He doesn’t like it.

“I can sustain myself. I can sustain you as well – you’re lying low, remember? The trouble you’re running from can be avoided yet.”

Baze barks out a laugh. “Avoiding trouble? Since when I, or, for that case, you, are avoiding trouble?”

Chirrut is unimpressed with him. “Since now.”

Another order, then. Baze sighs. He’d rather not argue with Chirrut on his first day back.

“Am I supposed to just sit around on my ass and do nothing?”

Finally, Chirrut gives him his most shit-eating grin. “No, you are supposed to exercise. Second duan, all fighting forms. Then you can clean the hut. There’s a spring by the temple’s south wall. I’ll be back by then and we’ll meditate.”

He’s being punished, Baze realizes. And despite the denials, Chirrut probably knows full well what he’s doing. Baze submits.

 

Chirrut disappears in a whirl of his robes, promising to bring food, and warning Baze once more against leaving. Baze throws a rude gesture after him silently and receives even a ruder reply. Baze will figure out one day however the fuck he’s doing it.

He cleans the hut first, figuring that after the forms he won’t be able to move much. The hut is ascetic and already rather neat. Baze finds no mementos from the past, no personal possessions, nothing to suggest what sort of a man lives here. Chirrut used to like souvenirs and gifts people brought him and kept them carefully, claiming they had good aura. Baze doesn’t think it’s gone now because Chirrut too became more cynical. It’s the opposite, more like, Chirrut refusing everything earthly to be ‘one with the Force’. Base snorts derisively.

He practices forms and soon, everything within him hurts. He really has gotten out of shape, gaining weight and losing flexibility. He has no excuse, really, so he grits his teeth and carries on.

When the sun begins to creep towards the horizon, Chirrut comes back, carrying a bag and a spare blanket. He throws both at Baze’s feet, making him glance up from his crouched backwards position.

“You’ll have to help me up,” he says to Chirrut in a strained voice. “I think I’ve broken my spine.”

Chirrut laughs at him and mock him, but hauls him up and prods at his back to assess damage. “You’ll live,” he issues the verdict. “Nothing a massage and more exercise won’t improve on.”

Baze considers the massage offer and thanks heavens he’s too tired to appreciate it _fully_.

“How was your day, then, darling?” he asks, knowing it won’t faze Chirrut in the slightest.

“Very well, thank you.”

He doesn’t elaborate and Baze doesn’t press it, figuring that as another punishment, he’s not yet allowed to get all familiar with Chirrut’s everyday life.

As promised, he gets fed, allowed a short nap, and then Chirrut sits with him in the middle of the yard and they meditate. Well, Chirrut meditates and Baze half dozes off half thinks uneasy thoughts. Clarity and peacefulness don’t come to him, no matter how hard he tries to focus.

 

*

 

Chirrut knows what Baze is doing – he’s punishing himself. He came to Chirrut like they used to come to their Masters upon committing a misdeed. Well, it could be worse: Baze could keep hiding or assign a punishment to himself, which would inevitably end up with more trouble.

Chirrut doesn’t want to punish him, he wants to comfort and sooth and love Baze, but it seems Baze doesn’t want to let him.

Chirrut isn’t angry, despite whatever Baze believes. He was terribly lonely and every day has been a fight without Baze, but it was, Chirrut is sure, how the Force has willed it. Baze had to go, for his own sake, and Chirrut had to stay alone. It made him harder, as Baze has rightly said, but maybe Chirrut had to become hard for whatever it is ahead of him.

What matters at this moment, though, is that Baze came back, and this time, no matter what the Force thinks about it, Chirrut will not let go of him. And if Baze needs to be punished to allow himself to stay, then Chirrut has to assist.

Of course, there is meaning behind it, only a different one to what Baze imagines. Chirrut is not set to teach him humility. He gives Baze orders so he doesn’t have a chance to make another decision he will eventually hate. He gives Baze chores and makes him exercise because it clears the mind, chasing away the dark unnecessary thoughts and because Baze really does need to restore his body, considering how loud he creaks when he walks. Chirrut puts him in seclusion and refuses him information so there’s no more outer source for his anger and misery. Chirrut hopes all of it eventually calm him down enough for a proper meditation – the first attempt Baze fails.

 

Chirrut gives up an hour into it, not able to concentrate with Baze’s heavy cloud of thoughts hovering above them. At least when he slept it was subdued.

“Fine,” Chirrut says, getting up and giving Baze a shove. “Be petulant. My tasks were clearly not demanding enough. Does you back still hurt?”

Baze makes a low grumpy noise. “Well, you didn’t give me a massage, so yeah. It does.”

Chirrut pauses, but to hell with it. He’s going to indulge himself for all the trouble.

“Strip and lie down, then. I think I had oil somewhere.”

Baze makes another noise, interestingly strained one. For the first time since the hug up in the Market, the murky cloud over his head shrinks and the familiar, bright-hot embarrassment pierces it. Chirrut marvels it for a moment, accepting that in some ways there was no change in Baze, after all. He’s not sure whether to be flattered or amused, or something else entirely. Something Chirrut has long since restricted himself to be.

While he rummages for oil and Baze strips noisily behind his back, a cloud of his own forms above Chirrut’s head. He still regards himself as a monk, now more than ever, having taken all the vows possible and knowing he’s being almost fanatical about it. And with that, also arrogant in this convincement he will soon lose the connection to the plain mortals. It’s not the first time Chirrut is displeased with this idea. He’s not a Jedi, he’s not even a Grand Master. He’d be told to knock it off a notch by one, if there was still anyone left to guide him. Up until now, though, Chirrut saw no reason to stop his relentless self-cultivation, since it worked as a blanket against the cold dark night surrounding him at all times. But he doesn’t need this blanket anymore.

Chirrut is in no way an expert, but he’s heard about the extreme pleasurability and addictiveness of sex. Definitely not something a monk can engage in, but some exceptions can be made, Chirrut reasons, searching for an excuse and not really finding a convincing one. Unless it’s for Baze’s well-being. Chirrut nods to himself, smiling smugly. He must do everything in his power to help Baze – after all, sex is also said to be mind-clearing and relaxing.

Baze’s skin radiates so much heat he’s almost glowing with it, his embarrassment increasing once he lies down on his stomach. Chirrut imagines it before putting his hands to the task – broad back and a fantastic ass, as far as he can remember, soon to be glistening with oil, and better still, if Baze spread his legs for Chirrut to reach _all_ the muscles... Chirrut swallows, suddenly flushed.

He strips as well, leaving underpants on for the sake of decency.

“Why are _you_ undressing?” Baze asks in alarm, noticing.

“I don’t want my clothes covered in oil. I will never wash it out,” Chirrut says reasonably, knowing Baze is tormented beyond belief. Well, who said Chirrut  was beyond a bit of punishment, after all?

It’s not like he’s definitely planning sex, he’s not that self-assured and he’s even less experienced, but at this point, Chirrut would be highly disappointed if it didn’t happen.

He sits down on Baze’s hips nonchalantly, pours the oil all over his back, hearing a muffled gasp, and finally puts his palms on the smooth expanse before him.

It was a long time since he’s touched Baze, it was a long time even before he’d left. He’s got different physically too, gaining the rock-hard muscle mass that must make him look even larger. Chirrut doesn’t bother with an actual massage yet, studying and stroking, memorising every scar he comes across and wanting to kiss them all instead.

He strokes over the shoulders and then arms Baze has crossed above his head, the motion bringing Chirrut to lie flush down on his back. Baze takes a shaky breath and then freezes, realizing what’s poking his butt.

“Chirrut,” Baze says in a rough voice, making him press down harder. That gives him an open moan.

“I want this,” Chirrut whispers, feeling like a lit torch. He’s no idea what comes after that, but thankfully, Baze has it covered. Well, they were always a good team.

Baze flips him over and rolls on top, cupping Chirrut’s head in one palm and angling it for a kiss, a new sensation Chirrut drinks as if he’s parched, head swimming and limbs heavy.

“Please, Baze,” he begs when given a chance of speaking, Baze’s hands disappointingly polite.

“You’re supposed to be celibate,” Baze informs him, pausing, breathing heavily, his hips between Chirrut’s thighs, but hovering just an inch above his groin. It’s extremely frustrating, so Chirrut arches up himself, a barest touch through the cloth enough to make them both moan.

“I don’t care,” he grits out, fearing he might come without any more assistance. “I don’t give a _fuck_. I need,” he swallows, “I need you.”

Mercifully, Baze accepts it, sitting up to take off Chirrut’s pants, pausing again after that, his fingers ghosting over Chirrut’s spread legs, trembling. He doesn’t say anything, but Chirrut can feel it emanating from him – burning desire and longing and awe. Chirrut arches up again, towards the burn, exposed but wanting to be open even more, to absorb everything Baze has to offer, everything he was missing for the long and miserable seven years.

“Baze,” he says insistently, his voice breaking mid-way.

The sound Baze makes is almost a sob, as he leans down, pressing flush this time, their cocks aligned and sliding together, hot and wet in the tight trap between their bellies. Baze kisses him, open-mouthed and uncoordinated, hips grinding down in short and desperate thrusts. Chirrut clings to his shoulders, to his back, to his round firm ass, moaning on every exhale, not finding any of remotely enough.

Baze comes first with a cry, spilling on Chirrut’s aching cock and chest, and it feels so good – Chirrut gasps for air, as Baze works a hand between them, taking them both into a fist, and it’s enough for Chirrut. A scorching white wave washes over him, leaving just noiseless light.

 

*

 

Baze holds him close, as close as he can manage, afraid he might dissipate like a dream. In his arms, Chirrut is warm and soft, breathless, his fingers in Baze’s messy hair, running circles on his nape.

“Will you stay, Baze?” Chirrut suddenly asks, his voice raw. Baze nods, but Chirrut doesn’t take it. “Don’t leave me again,” he says – begs – drawing Baze even closer in. “Don’t –“

“I won’t,” Baze says before Chirrut can ask again. “I’m not going anywhere. Never again. I love you,” he whispers into Chirrut’s skin, and the whispers it again, and again, sealing his words with kisses, until Chirrut believes him and laughs and peace descends upon Baze, at last.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
